


Ode to Sleep

by aruzeii



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Broken Bones, Chan gave Minho a blowjob though, Explicit Sexual Content, Food Purging, Gore, Graphic Depictions of Eating, Hyperventilation, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Abuse, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mental Illness, Mentions of poisoning, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Paranoias, Personality Disorder, Self-Induced Vomiting, Smut, Violence, mentions of diseases, nobody dies here dw, they all just suffer a fucking lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27066316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aruzeii/pseuds/aruzeii
Summary: “Just go to sleep, Chan. You’ll wake up fine.”There’s something wrong with Minho. The way he looks and talks to him. The way his face shifts when seeing him. The way he prefers to cheat with his co-worker and lie to him. The way he prefers to hurt him, quite literally.“You’ll wake up fine.”Chan will find out what’s wrong with Minho. Once he stops hurting. Once his head stops pounding, once his brain stops buzzing. He’ll find out everything, once the drugging stops.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 25
Kudos: 94





	Ode to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> i put it in the warnings, but i'm gonna say it here again. this plot deals with heavy themes and i suggest you all to read through the tags very carefully! if you proceed, get triggered and/or annoyed by it afterwards, that's on you. 
> 
> happy reading!

Munch. Munch.

The flavor burst in Chan’s mouth, his tongue savoring the ripped fibers of his rib-eye steak. Salty. He forced himself to swallow the excessively-seasoned meat, took a big gulp of red wine to wash down the horrible taste. Chan scooped the carbs next to his meat, puzzled at how Minho managed to mess up mashed potatoes. Lumpy. Bland. Felt like eating undercooked potato. 

His tongue rolled on the muddy texture, wanting to only spit out the disgusting mush. 

An ear-splitting shrill of fork against the ceramic plate. It disturbed Chan, making him lift his head to face the one across the table. Minho had his eyes on his plate, stabbing and slicing his meat, mouth full and busy chewing. He noticed Chan’s gaze and raised his eyebrow unheedingly. 

Minho swallowed his steak. “What is it, babe?” 

His lips were greasy. 

Chan licked his own lips, holding himself from the words he was about to spurt out. Minho would get furious if he protested about his cooking. 

“Thank you for sparing time to cook for our anniversary.” He cracked a smile instead. Minho would love it. 

Minho reached to his wine glass and steadied his fingers on the stem. Took a sip and twirled the clear glass. The liquid swimming colored like blood. 

Eyes back on Chan. “Well thank you,” Minho smirked, teeth showing from the corner of his lips. “For sparing your stomach to eat this garbage cooking.” 

Chan knew Minho, long enough to know that that was just another attempt to guilt-trip him. But Minho put down his glass and stretched his arm across the table. Chan kept his hold on the fork, fingers tightening on the cold silver. He could never guess Minho. 

Minho’s fingers came to Chan’s hand, his thumb grazing the skin. Chan felt shiver crawling up his right arm. 

“And for putting up with my shit for two years. Thank you, Chan.” 

Minho’s left hand was still holding his knife. 

“I love you so much, you know that?” 

Minho could stab Chan any moment and he would still be lulled by his sweet words. He could have poisoned his steak and Chan would still be chewing on the red meat. Was it yesterday’s fight? Their discontinued conversation that morning because Chan chose to focus on their television screen? The unsaid greetings earlier because Chan preferred working over chit-chats?

Minho could have poisoned his steak. 

“I’m just so, so happy, Chan. To move and live here with you, is probably the best decision I’ve ever made.” 

Chan felt bitterness creeped to the back of his tongue, travelling and unraveling with his pooling saliva. 

Minho could have poisoned his steak and Chan would have no fucking idea. 

Chan pulled his hand from Minho, stuttering when he dropped his fork and peeled himself off the chair. The clanking on his plate rang his ears. He saw the rounding eyes and dilated pupils of Minho, saw the grip on his boyfriend’s knife tightening it colored his fingers white. 

“Channie, did I say something wrong?” 

Gulping on his saliva felt like swallowing a beating heart; Chan almost choked. He felt his own fingers holding his own neck, trying to catch a breath. “Minho, I…” 

Minho stood up almost immediately, eyebrows flinching as he approached Chan. He stuck the back of his hand onto Chan’s forehead. “Are you okay, baby?” 

Pet names. It shouldn’t have felt wrong. Chan didn’t dare look at his boyfriend. 

He flinched from the touch and turned around. No sight of Minho’s flashing knife. “I don’t feel really good. I think…” An excuse. An excuse. Quick, think of an excuse! 

“I think I wanna go to bed.”

The hand of Minho slid on Chan’s shoulder, lightly massaging his bicep. “Okay, Channie. I’m going to do the dishes, okay? Take a warm bath first, it’ll make you feel better.” 

Chan skittered to the bathroom and slammed the door, shutting himself inside the silence. He dropped in front of the toilet and snuck his head into the bowl. 

Nothing was coming out. He felt sick. He felt _fucking sick_. 

He slipped two fingers through his opened lips, reaching the back of his tongue. He scraped and scratched and dug into his own mouth until he felt his insides churning back from his stomach. And there, he felt the acidic taste of the mushy, half-digested steak burning his esophagus. Sliding out his throat, firing his head and lungs; he even felt some spurting from his nostrils. 

Chan kept vomiting until he felt himself soaked with the mixture of sweat, tears, and snot. His head floated. Tears were blurring his vision, but his buzzing ear could still hear the knocking on the door and the sound of Minho. What happened to washing the dishes? 

“Channie? Babe? Are you okay?” 

Knocks. 

“Do you want me to go inside?” 

Knocks, louder. Banging. 

Chan didn’t bother answering. If Minho wanted to get in, he wouldn’t bother asking. He was the one that removed all the locks—excluding the front doors—in their apartment. 

“I’m going inside, okay?” 

Knob twisting, door opening. Chan gripped the toilet bowl hard he felt the dull pain on his fingertips. His mouth tasted like puke and his whole body smelled horrible. Minho would be disgusted. 

“Warm water. Drink this.”

His blurry eyes spotted the mug, shakily grabbing the warm porcelain. He drank all the water, not wanting to think about the poisoning. He wanted to get that over, and he wanted to get away. To get out. To get out. To get out. 

“You must feel awful. Come here, Channie. I’ll help you clean up.”

Minho stripped him off the clothes and Chan felt too sick to resist. Minho’s hands were warm and soft. Reassuring touches to calm his shivering skin. Chan wanted to get away. He felt filthy. Minho brushed his damp hair backwards, wiped the sweat off his forehead. Forcing Chan to look at him. 

“Let’s get you in the bath, Channie.” 

Minho treated him like a paralyzed baby. Putting him in a warm bath, kissing his shoulder while rubbing his skin with soap and bubbles. Chan glanced at his boyfriend every once in a while. Minho had his sleeves rolled up, but his whole shirt was starting to get soaked too. More of Chan to blame. More things to argue about in the future. Minho would hate having his clothes wet. Chan knew, because he knew Minho. 

Minho would also hate getting inside the bath with him. Maybe because he smelled like an awful mixture of vomit and sweat. Minho would hate having that horrible smell all over him. Chan knew, because he knew Minho. 

He knew Minho a little too well. 

“Feeling better?” 

Chan nodded and Minho gave him a smile. Minho helped him dry himself with a towel, helped him put on his freshly laundered pajamas. Led him to their bedroom. Took his hand as if Chan was a fragile piece of glass. Shattering Chan’s train of thoughts. 

“Drink this, Channie,” Minho said after putting him on the bed and tucked him under the soft blanket. 

Fuck. 

Along with a cup of water were those _goddamned_ pills again. Both were round like BB bullets. One with the color white, the other bright red. Chan never knew what those were. He hated them, but he hated it more if Minho screamed and cried because he refused the pills. 

Chan drank the pills with obedience. 

“Make yourself comfortable, okay? I’m gonna cut some fruits and we can watch Netflix afterwards.”

Minho was blurry by the time he finished his words. He tried blinking his eyes but the obscure figure of his boyfriend was shrinking away, and the footsteps he heard were going further. Chan didn’t want to think about whatever his boyfriend would come back with. 

He felt terrified. His body felt lighter, he felt awfully sleepy and sick. His head felt like it’s floating away and he couldn’t keep track of his thoughts. His ears felt like it’s being muffled and he panicked; what if he missed the sound of the doors closing? What if by the time Minho came back, Chan already lost all his senses altogether? 

Would Minho even come back? 

He would probably leave for good. Leave Chan to die alone from the pill he gave him. Leaving him to rot on this very bed, soaking on his own sweat and excretion.

He heard approaching footsteps, felt a hand on top of his head, and smelled the sweet scent of mangoes. Minho came back. Chan didn’t know if it’s better that way. 

A faint chuckle. “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

A dizzying blur of Minho’s face before him. Was Chan losing his vision? 

Warm, soft flesh on his forehead. Minho’s lips and a whisper.

“You’ll wake up fine.”
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

There’s something wrong with Minho. 

Chan didn’t exactly know when or how it started, but he knew for a fact that his boyfriend had changed. 

It’s from the way he looked at him, the way he said his words. The way he touched him, the way he moaned underneath Chan when they fucked. His eyes, his expressions. The way Minho would snuck away sometimes and whisper to his phone. 

Something felt off. Things felt odd. 

And then came the pills. Those small, round, white and red pills. The whites after lunch, accompanied with the reds before bed. Minho always forced Chan to drink them, never bothered telling Chan what those were. Whenever he asked, Minho would always answer with his it-will-make-you-feel-better crap.

Chan couldn’t even figure out what his boyfriend was trying to do. Things never add up. Minho would plaster displeasure all over his face when he saw Chan as if he wanted to leave and break off. Then he would come back with the pills, keeping Chan sick inside their cage of an apartment. Whatever his intention was, Chan felt like he didn’t want to know either. He could never guess his unstable boyfriend.

The ceiling was spinning, inflating and deflating above him. He scrunched his eyes back close. Chan had been like this for days (or had it been weeks? Probably months). He’d wake up discomposed with his brain buzzing and his mind dilapidating. His throat would be so dry it hurt, and for a second he couldn’t recognize the room he’s in. 

It took him minutes before realizing that Minho never let Chan sleep away from him nor their shared apartment. 

He couldn’t remember what happened last night, but the way he felt vomit sticking in his breath told him that he probably fucked up dinner. Chan made a mental note to cook himself for the night. (Did Minho get mad?)

He smelled the foul scent of mangoes, and spotted the spoiled yellow cubes along with a half-empty cup of water on the nightstand. Beside the cup were two orange tubes; one filled with those small-round-white pills and the other with the reds. Chan had spent countless times trying to read the labels, but Minho ripped them off clean. 

Chan turned and tried to get up but his whole body felt sore. After struggling to peel himself off the sheets, he saw his boyfriend. Sitting on the other side of the bed with his bare back facing Chan, a phone clamped by his shoulder to his ear.

“Hello, Hyunjin?”

And there’s _that_ guy. He’d never met Hyunjin, but Minho said that “his new co-worker” is a hardworking, very kind person. Sounded like a lovely guy. Minho must have liked him a lot. 

(Chan would like to spit on him.)

Minho had also been coming home late these past days. His new co-worker was the reason, because apparently he’d been teaching Hyunjin stuffs in the office. Maybe Minho grew to be fond of him. Probably enchanted to the young and curious new guy. 

Hyunjin sounded like a perfect replacement of Chan. 

Hyunjin was a giggler. Chan could hear his cute, flirty little laughs from the phone call. He stood up and made his way to sit next to _his_ boyfriend. 

“Yes, yes, shut up. I’m getting ready now,” Minho glanced at Chan and leaned to give a quick kiss on his lips. His fingers landed on Chan’s hair, caressing the black locks with light brushes. Minho wasn’t wearing anything but his boxer briefs. Chan peeked to his own pajamas and the buttons were all jumbled. 

“About the party? I’ll ask him later, don’t worry.” 

Did Minho plan something behind his back? With Hyunjin? When? What were they planning? 

Was it all the time he got home late because of the so-called shitload of his work? Did he go somewhere to makeout with Hyunjin? Did he sneak into a dark alley to suck Hyunjin’s cock? To have Hyunjin suck his cock? Were they planning something? To hurt him? To leave him? 

Hyunjin sounded like a lovely party guy. 

“I’m getting ready now. Right. I’ll see you later.” 

Did he go to Hyunjin’s place and have sex before running back home, thus the sweat every night he got home late? 

Minho hung up the phone and set it on the sheet, the screen facing down. Probably to hide Hyunjin’s messages. 

“Channie,” Minho called. His voice was soft. His voice was always soft. Soothing tones. Minho’s hand never left Chan, his soft palm caressing all the skin he could reach. “I told you about the office party, right?” 

Chan furrowed his eyebrows, trying to remember their previous conversations that might have involved the word ‘office party’. 

Right, right. That night, when Chan refused to drink the pills and Minho gave him those disgusted eyes. Correct, correct. Minho probably wanted to murder him that night. Exactly, the night he mentioned ‘office party’. Holding a cup of water and two foreign pills, Minho asked Chan to go to his office party with him. Office party. Chan hated parties because they’re loud and filled with people he didn’t know, but he would hate it more if Minho left him. 

So, he nodded. 

His boyfriend’s face lit up, corners of his lips shifted into a smile. His bunny teeth peeked, his nose slightly scrunched. “Perfect! I already planned everything, even bought the suits!” 

Minho stood up from their bed, leaving Chan with empty air beside him. Chan looked up to his jumpy boyfriend. “Oh God!” 

“I’m so excited! I can’t wait to introduce you to all of my friends and co-workers and brag about you to my boss! It’ll be a perfect night, I can already see it!” 

Chan knew that he would only humiliate himself in front of hundreds of people if he came to the party, but Minho was adorable like that. Chan felt himself smile at the sight of Minho. Maybe he’d let Minho take the wheel and shame him for the party night. Chan loved Minho, after all. 

No matter how harsh his boyfriend was to him, Chan couldn’t help but fall in love with him every time he saw his bunny teeth, every time he scrunched his nose in excitement, every time his round eyes formed into a crescent of complete happiness. With his headache fading away, Chan laughed alongside his boyfriend. 

The laughter stopped. 

“Baby,” Chan felt the soft palms of his boyfriend cupping his face. “You didn’t forget about our appointment at lunch, right?” 

Disappearing smile. Menacing tone. Suspicious eyes. Chan held his breath, gulped down his spit. How did it turn to that? His brain rang. The headache came back, a sharp pain through his brain. 

He stared at his boyfriend; because no, he couldn’t recall anything about an appointment. He shouldn’t be going to any appointment, especially _with_ Minho. “What appointment, Min?” 

Minho gave him a long, silent stare. Was it disappointment? Disgruntlement? Exhaustion? Disgust? “The therapist, Channie. You promised me you’ll meet him today.” 

Vomiting wasn’t a serious case of illness. Just because a poisoned steak caused an awful chemical churning in his stomach last night, didn’t mean he had a terminal illness that demanded an appointment with a fucking doctor. Minho was the one that put shit inside his food. He’s the one that needed help. Chan was just a mere lab rat for his sick boyfriend. 

“Minho, I don’t need help. I’m not sick,” Chan said, emphasizing every word. “ _You_ are, Minho. Get help.” 

Chan stood up and almost fell limb because the floor suddenly wobbled below his feet. Minho caught his shoulders, and Chan didn’t know if it was to stable him or to cage him back in the bedroom. 

His voice was cracking. “Channie, you need help.” 

Minho was unbelievable. Chan was sick of his victim-plays, he had enough of Minho. Of his fucking guilt-trips. His tears. He hated them, he hated them. Of his fake tones of amenity. Sweet fucking nothing. 

“Minho, fuck off,” Chan hissed, snatching his arm from Minho’s fingers. “I need to get to work. And put on some clothes, will you? I can’t stand seeing your disgusting body.” 

Chan shuffled away from their bedroom. “Such a whore,” A shame under his breath and a sob from the walls.
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

“Don’t worry, Channie,” Minho said, smoothing his palms on Chan’s suit. “I’ll be by your side the whole time, you don’t have to worry about a thing.” 

It’s Friday. Chan spent the last two days finishing his news article about the current worldwide economic recession. He called his boss to inform him about the work, and that filthy rich man thanked him in such sarcastic tone. Chan wanted to spit at his boss’ empty praises, but he knew that that rat would fire him for being disrespectful. 

(He hung up the call not long after. Fuck that guy.)

He was already way ahead of his schedule and deadlines, so he used his free day to chill in front of their shared closet and stare at the neatly-laundered suits, observing the fabrics to make sure it really was as clean as advertised by the laundry company. Minho had an excellent fashion sense; unlike Chan’s boring picks of clothing. He was glad his boyfriend volunteered to pick their outfits for the office party. 

Minho came home early that day, taking his time to shower, forced Chan to drink the pill, and eat ice cream together on the balcony. He looked stunning in the velvet red suit, looked gorgeous with his brown hair puffing and falling on his forehead. Chan wanted to kiss him. 

Tidying up his tie and lapel, Minho continued. “If you feel uncomfortable, we can just go back home,” he leaned to kiss Chan’s cheek, and Chan lost the chance to chase his lips. “But I really want you to meet some of the co-workers before we head back.” 

“I’d look stupid.” 

People don't usually like Chan at first glance. He wondered if it’d be his sour face or Minho’s back-talks about him this time. He hated people’s attention on him, too. He hated having eyes all over him (unless if it’s Minho’s). Minho, on the other hand, seemed to love having the spotlight. Not that it’s wrong, because his boyfriend was indeed insanely gorgeous. It’s just that his beauty sometimes attracted assholes, like his annoying ex; or Hyunjin, his probably-affair-partner. 

“I just want everyone in the office to know that I have a really handsome, sexy boyfriend,” Minho grinned, reaching Chan's hand to play with his fingers. “Though they’re probably sick by how much I talk about you at work.” 

Chan hated it. He didn’t want to know what Minho talked about to his co-workers about him. If it’s about his short temper, or about the amount of fights they had. Did Minho tell them that Chan’s sick? Did they know that Minho's been shoving pills down his abused throat? Did they know that Minho’s sick in the head? Oh, no. Minho probably spilled all Chan’s flaws to Hyunjin. Did he perhaps, cry on the whore’s shoulder? Weep and natter to him about how hard it is to date Chan? 

“Will Hyunjin be there?” The squeak was unexpected to Chan, and probably to Minho too, judging by the shift on his face. 

“Of course, Channie,” Minho answered. “In fact, he was the one that recommended these suits for the evening.” 

Oh. 

They probably undressed each other and made out while picking the outfits too. Maybe fucked in the dressing room. 

“Great,” Chan hated his voice. “Am I wearing his filthy, used suit?” 

Minho’s eyebrows furrowed. Great, another fight waiting to explode from his nerves. 

“No, Channie, of course not. I only sent him the pics and asked him to rate my choices, since he’s much more of a fashionista than I am,” Minho stared at him. Blaming eyes. Blaming eyes. 

“You remember that you’re the one who refused to go to the store, right?” 

Chan rolled his eyes. “Don’t guilt trip me like this, Minho.” 

Minho stayed quiet then, but his lips were dragged down and his eyes turned glassy. Great. He’s gonna fucking cry, making Chan the bad guy. Crying before they go together to a party, to the crowd full of people that only know Chan’s bad traits. Perfect. Everyone in the party is going to spit on him and coo on his poor, crying boyfriend. 

Minho turned around and rubbed his hand furiously on his eyes, sniffling. “Let’s just go, Channie. People are very excited to see you. I’ll wait in the car.” 

The ride to the party was an agonizing silence. Minho was so busy sniffling and controlling his choked breaths; while Chan sat dumbfounded and quiet behind the steering wheel. Nothing but another round of Minho’s guilt-tripping game. It had been very intense lately, and Chan wondered when he even agreed to be a part of it. There was something wrong with Minho, and he needed professional help. 

But Minho tangled his arm around Chan’s when they arrived. All traces of tears removed from his pretty face, replaced with a flat smile and cute dimples. Chan shivered all the way to his neck. There’s something awfully wrong with Minho. 

Loud music showered over them, crowds in neat suits and beautiful dresses surrounding them. The hall was sickeningly spacious. Chan kept his head on the ground, nailing his eyes on every passing fancy heels and shiny loafers. Minho tugged his arm. 

“Relax, Channie. You’re not being stared.” 

The end of Minho’s sentence was interrupted by a scarily deep voice of, “Minho!” 

“Yongbok, hello!”

“Chris!” The arm around Chan disappeared and was replaced by a small palm tapping his shoulder. “Whoa, you both look amazing tonight!” 

Chan lifted his head to search for the missing arm of his boyfriend, and met the owner of the deep voice instead. Taller, but smaller than him. He was adorable, with fluffy blond hair pushed sideways and showing his black roots. Small face, round eyes, heart-shaped lips. He looked nothing like his voice, but Chan felt like he’d seen him. Somewhere. 

“Chris?” Chan asked instead. 

The other man (Yongbok?) snickered. “Minho told me that you came from Australia too and he told me your english name. I was really excited to see you again, Minho told me a lot about you. It’s been a long time.” The fellow Aussie snuck out his small hand, his eyes sparkling on Chan’s. 

“I’m Felix. Don’t mind your boyfriend, you know he likes to call me Yongbok for no fucking reason.” 

A chuckle behind Felix, from a much taller man. The tallest among all four of them, chuckling next to Minho. Familiar voice. Familiar giggling. 

“I came with this guy. Babe,” Felix reached to the tall guy, small fingers tugging his. 

The laughter stopped. The giggler stood stupidly before he approached Chan. Dark green suit and a darker colored tie wrapping his lean body. Pretty, long blond hair tucked to his ears, small strands framing his gorgeous face. He looked like a model. Long neck. Sharp eyes. Plump lips. A mole under his eyes. 

The sharp eyes warped into a crescent as he smiled wide. One of his arms stretched to embrace Felix into his side, while the other offered a firm handshake to Chan. “Fuck, sorry. I’m Hyunjin.” 

“It’s very nice to finally meet you, Channie,” Hyunjin continued. 

Steady buzzing in Chan’s head. He felt his eye twitch and his nose subconsciously scrunched at the sight and the overly-friendly tone. 

Chan wanted to spit on him. “Just Chan is fine, Hyunjin.” 

“Oh,” Hyunjin stuttered, glancing to Minho behind him before letting out an awkward chuckle. What a whore. “Okay. I’m so sorry, Chan.” 

“So, Chris,” Felix opened back the conversation. Chan decided to give a pass for Felix to call him Chris. Despite the weird familiarity. Felix was weird. 

Minho stepped closer to him, a whisper and a reassuring peck on the cheek followed in between Felix’s words. “I’ll get us a drink. Just a second.”

“How have you been?” Felix continued. 

Minho was gone and Hyunjin excused himself not long after, following Minho into the pantry in the back with hurried steps. Felix brushed his hands at them. The odd tone made Chan shiver. Felix was weird. He felt like he knew him. 

“It’s not your business.”

“Oh,” he stood silent for a second. “Well, I myself have been fine. I live with Hyunjin now. Do you still do your work? As a journalist?” 

Why was he so nosy? Felix was weird. Probably trying to dig into him. He would probably laugh at him after the party’s over. He might be dangerous. 

“I said it’s none of your business.” 

“You know I’m completely harmless, right, Chris?” Felix asked, but his eyes were studying him.   
Chan wanted to punch him. But Minho (where is he? Did Hyunjin follow him?) would scream and yell at him. And the securities would come, locking him to the ground. Felix was dangerous. Felix was weird and Minho chose to leave him.

And Hyunjin followed him into the back of the hall. 

Chan didn’t want to look at Felix’s face, nor did he choose to answer. He let the noises of the crowd fill between them. He needed Minho. 

But Minho was gone and Hyunjin followed him.

“Channie, people are not always that vicious. Not everyone has bad intentions.” 

Felix was talking too much. He’s gonna try digging into Chan, spilling his discoveries to Minho and Hyunjin and all of their friends. Humiliating Chan, laughing at him by the time he’s gone. Disgusting. Felix was disgusting. 

“Don’t act like you know it all, asshole,” he hissed. “I just… I just don’t talk to strangers, okay?”

Chan should get back to Minho. 

“Chris, I’m not a stranger. You know me.” 

But Minho was gone. Hyunjin followed him. 

Chan sighed. He shared his gaze around the large hall, trying to find his boyfriend. 

Chan spotted Minho then. Walking from the bar counter and talking to Hyunjin. 

Talking to Hyunjin. _Talking to Hyunjin_. 

“Excuse me,” Chan muttered, dashing past the smaller man. He ignored Felix’s calls. 

They were smiling and laughing. Small, vague touches. Chan felt dizzy and sick. He walked past the ocean of crowd but everyone was looking at him. Hundreds of eyes piercing through his suit, making him feel like a walking circus. Chan hastened his steps but it felt like he was running on a treadmill. Minho seemed so far away. Minho _was_ so far away, and he was with Hyunjin. Ignoring him, forgetting him. 

Minho was forgetting him. Leaving him. Replacing him. 

Everyone was looking at him. Wide smiles, heads thrown back. Clinking of glasses and loud music. Popping champagne. Tapping of heels. Shrieks of laughter filling his head, messing with his brain. Laughing at him. Pointing at him. The walls closed around him, gluing him with strangers. Spinning and breathing around him. _It wasn’t fucking fair because he couldn’t heave a single breath_. The damned suit was tightening around him and replaced the oxygen in his lungs with blazing fires. Squeezing him, suffocating him with a discomposing euphoria. _Squeeze, squeeze._

He couldn’t _fucking_ breathe. 

Minho was leaving him. He said he would be by his side the whole time, but he left him. Chan couldn’t breathe and the whole room spun around him. He couldn’t feel anything but the freezing tips of his fingers and toes. He couldn’t feel his limbs and it felt like he was being dragged under the ground. He couldn’t identify a thing in front of him, he couldn’t register the noises around him. He couldn’t _fucking_ move, could barely make a noise that isn’t choked breaths. 

Minho didn’t care about him. Minho wouldn’t give a shit if Chan was about to die in the giant hall and got stepped on by everyone. Minho left, Minho-

“Channie, Channie, hey.” 

Minho’s voice. Minho’s voice, Minho’s hands on him, Minho’s scent filling him up. Fingers on his hair, hands rubbing his back. Minho. Minho’s scent. Minho had his arms around him.

Minho’s back.

“I’m here. Calm down. Breathe with me, Channie,” Minho said. While the laughs in his head started to wear off, Chan noticed that they were no longer surrounded by crowds of people. Minho was kneeling before him. He found himself curling into a ball on the floor with Minho’s heartbeat close to his ears. Contrasting his own rapid heartbeats, contrasting his ticking bomb of a chest. 

He followed his words, inhaling and exhaling with Minho’s rhythm. Stuttered and choked breaths, but at least the giant lump in his lungs was starting to shrink away. Minho took both of his shaking hands and held them gently. Slowly, slowly. His muscles began to relax and the paralyzing tingles on his limbs started to loosen. 

Only them, their slow breaths and Chan’s choked sobs. Inhale, exhale. Repeat. 

Inhale, exhale. Repeat.

Excessive concern was smudging Minho’s pretty face; dimly lit by the neon sign of the toilet above their heads. Minho’s thumb grazed on Chan’s cheek and wiped off his tears. “You’re okay, baby. I’m right here.” 

“Are you feeling better? Do you feel like throwing up?” Minho continued to ask, hand never stopped rubbing on Chan’s back. Kissing his shaking fingers. Neverending, calming kisses. 

Chan shook his head.

Minho reached to the ground and brought up a champagne glass, filled with clear liquid. “I brought you water since you’re not allowed to drink alcohol. Drink this,” he handed the glass to him. 

Chan stared at the liquid. 

“It’s just water, Channie. Why would I put anything into your drink? I’m your boyfriend.” 

_Because I’m a burden. A sick, weak burden. Because you’re tired of me and you want to get rid of me. Because you prefer having Hyunjin around than me. Because you’d rather have that whore on your bed than me. Because you want me to go away for good with no trace. Because you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you’re a sick psycho and prefer having the easy way to get rid of me._

Chan drank the water. 

“Good boy,” Minho praised, kissing Chan’s forehead as if he was a toddler. Chan allowed himself to lean in. 

Minho put the glass on the carpet and stood back up, clutching Chan’s fingers. “Now let’s get out of here. Felix and Hyunjin would probably smash each other tonight.” Minho chuckled and stopped his steps, staring at Chan. “Come on, baby. Let’s head back to the car. I’ll drive.”
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

Chan kept himself busy on the car radio from the passenger seat while occasionally glancing to the driver’s seat. He’d felt much better than earlier and they talked about how warm Felix and Hyunjin were. (Chan didn’t enjoy talking about the latter, but he wouldn’t fancy having another fight with his sensitive boyfriend.) Shared laughs and lame jokes filling the empty road before them.

From the side, Minho looked gorgeous. He looked amazing in his suit, velvet red coating his milky skin. Eyes focused on the road, eyebrows sharp. Minho had possibly the most beautiful nose in the whole world. Smirking lips, showing his bunny teeth as he laughed. His eyelash would flicker along with his scrunched eyes. Red lights flashed occasionally on his face, creating a perfect contrast with his silhouette. His boyfriend was beautiful. 

One hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. Minho’s beautiful fingers. Chan couldn’t help but put his hand on it and held it. Thumb lightly grazing on Minho’s soft skin. They had a long road ahead and Chan wanted to chase the boredom away. Minho giggled and Chan was dying to taste and swallow his adorable noises. 

They stayed like that for a while, fingers intertwined with Jasmine playing on the radio.

With his other hand still glued to the steering wheel, Minho brought their intertwined fingers to his side and diverted his face from the road. Shifting his eyes directly to Chan and bringing fingers to his mouth. 

Chan’s fingers through his lips. 

Chan gasped at the wet sensation of Minho’s tongue rolling on his index finger. He let himself drowned into the warmth of his boyfriend’s mouth.

“Minho,” Chan warned, but continued letting his boyfriend do as he wanted. The road was dead anyway. Minho kept his gaze on Chan and his fingers between his lips. “Minho, you’re driv-” 

Minho turned the steering wheel and stopped on the curb. Shifted to parking mode and pulled the handbrake. 

No other cars around. Just him and Minho. And the light giggles of his gorgeous boyfriend. 

He wasn’t thinking. Chan unfastened his seatbelt and leaned to the side, grabbing his boyfriend’s nape and latched their lips. Chan didn’t know about his boyfriend, but he’d had no alcohol for the past week. Yet Minho’s mouth alone was enough to make him drunk and high. He felt his waist starting to sore from the awkward position, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care. As long as he had his lips on Minho’s, nothing else would matter.

“Minho,” Chan called again, but that time in the form of a needy whine. “Minho, Minho, Minho.” 

All of him. Chan wanted all of him, desperate for the need to devour all of Minho. His lips, his tongue, all against him. He longed for more of the warm sensation, longed for more of his taste. His moans, his whines, his sighs. His voice. Minho’s moans right to his ears. His melodic sounds, all twinkling right to his beating heart. Chan felt like he was going to explode with the need to be inside Minho. 

“Chris,” Minho moaned. “Christopher, more.” 

It felt like a pang to his chest, that moan. Rather than the sour pain, it was hooking, making him addicted. He needed more of it. He needed more of Minho to call and _only_ call his name. Because he was Minho’s. His. His Channie, his Christopher. All of the sweetnames belong to him and _only_ him. Minho. _His_ Minho. 

“My baby,” Chan replied, hands traveling to Minho’s suit, pulling his tie to deepen their kiss before he loosen them altogether. “My love, my Minho.”

Hands sneaking farther downward to Minho’s pants, hand covering and pressing on Minho’s clothed hard-on. Lips never leaving each other. Partings only to catch stolen breaths. The more Chan’s fingers roamed to rub on Minho’s erection, the more he let out his beautiful moans. The more Minho gripped on Chan’s wrinkled collar while repeating his mantra of Chan’s english name. Addicting voices. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Minho pushed Chan until he fell back to his seat. Harsh. Minho looked like an absolute mess; a trail of saliva hanging on his chin and glistening on his swollen lips. The strokes of his fluffy brown hair were ruffled and scruffy. 

Minho was still panting when he said, “Sorry, didn’t mean to push you that hard.” 

Chan scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

Apologetic tone. “Baby, Channie, I just want to do this at home, on our bed.” 

Chan wanted to spit on his fake baby talks. 

But Minho reached to cup Chan’s face and kissed his forehead and his nose and his cheeks and his _everywhere_ and devoured Chan’s lips once again until they both ran out of breath. Minho smirked when they parted and left another trail of saliva between. 

He led Chan’s hand back to his crotch and Chan could feel the outline of his hardened cock twitching on his fingertips. “Besides, I’m really _fucking aching_ for you down here.” 

Chan stole another kiss from Minho before his boyfriend sat back straight on his seat and sped up the car.

The rest of the ride felt like an eternity for the both of them. Minho always took the chance to rub on Chan’s thigh and crotch whenever he had the chance, and Chan did the same. They would have probably gotten into an accident if Chan didn’t scream at Minho to stop at every intersection and red lights. 

There’s something terribly wrong with Minho and he shouldn’t be driving, but for then, Chan just wanted to fuck him. He could deal with Minho’s sickness later. 

Rattling keys, rattling door. 

Minho’s back was pressed against their apartment door and his torso against Chan’s. Squelching noises fillling the air, but none of them gave a fuck. Feet tangling on each other as Chan struggled to put the right key to open their damned door. Minho was busy on his neck and was already unbuttoning his shirt the second they stumbled inside their apartment. 

They continued making out in the foyer until both of them almost slipped on their thrown suits and Chan impulsively carried Minho to their bedroom. He threw Minho under him and pressed his knee against his boyfriend’s crotch, earning another lewd moan and another call of his name. 

Chan wasn’t surprised when he noticed the top buttons of his shirt were already undone. Minho was squirming under him, trying to rut on his knee, trying to pull Chan closer to him, whining left and right. Trying to reach Chan's shirt and rip the buttons off. Chan took his time unbuttoning his shirt, enjoying the view under him. He discarded his shirt and tossed his pants somewhere, and leaned in to peel Minho from his white shirt. 

Biting and sucking on Minho’s neck as he sighed into Chan’s ears. Addictive, his voice. Chan kept himself busy creating more hickeys on Minho’s neck while undressing him, and Minho used the time to pull out a bottle of lube from their nightstand. 

Chan took a pause after taking Minho off of all the clothing to admire the art he’d created on his boyfriend’s body. Minho was gorgeous like that. Panting, whining, moaning. Soft skin dampened with sweat, milk color contrasted by reddish hickeys. Eyes on him, eyes on him. Mouth that opened only for moaning. Only for him. 

Minho rutted against his knee again and whined for Chan to hurry. He worked fast with the lube and stretched Minho. Complying for Minho, as Chan would always do. He was already loose after all, Minho was used to getting fucked by Chan. 

He couldn’t stop admiring his Minho. Eyes closed and bunny teeth biting his swollen lips. Chan wondered if Minho looked like this too, under the hold of Hyunjin. 

Chan took his fingers away and slid the condom on his cock, ready to get inside Minho. The other was awfully desirous, filling the air between them with spoiled pleads. 

Chan wondered if Minho pleaded like that to Hyunjin too. 

Did Hyunjin fuck Minho better than him? Did Minho moan with the same desire as he did with Chan? Did they exchange a thousand of ‘I love you’s as they fuck? As they make love on top of their creaking bed? Whispering filthy things to each other’s ears? Nibbling on each other’s neck? Or were there just quick fuck in Hyunjin’s place? Exchanged handjobs in the alleys? Making out in the back room of their office? 

Why did Minho choose Hyunjin over him? 

Chan looked away from Minho. It hurted him too much. 

“I don’t think we should be doing this.” 

Everything before him was blurry. He hated crying, he hated those layers of tears that were burning his eyes. He hated whatever shit that was clumping in his throat. 

“Huh?” 

“We,” Chan hated choking on his own voice. He hated Minho for being unfaithful. He hated _them_. He hated himself, he hated Minho. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” 

Minho got up from his position and sat up. “No, no. Channie, please,” Minho’s voice was throaty. Was he going to apologize? Was he going to own his mistakes and say sorry at last? Was he going to admit all the shit he’d been doing behind Chan’s back? About his affair with Hyunjin? About the drugs he’d been forcing Chan to swallow?

Chan didn’t want to look at him, but Minho grabbed his face and forced him to look at his pitying eyes. Chan was fed up from all the guilt-trips and he didn’t want to listen to Minho’s bullshit anymore. 

“I want this, Channie. Baby, I really do,” Minho said, pulling Chan into his embrace. Minho’s skin was warm. Minho’s skin was too warm and it melted the layer of tears from Chan’s eyes. He sobbed into Minho’s shoulder. He hated Minho. He hated Minho for being so fucking traitorous. He couldn’t trust a thing Minho said. 

_You’re sick, Minho._

Minho was warm and Chan hated himself so fucking much for finding comfort within his hold. 

“Please, continue? We can fix everything. I promise, Channie. Baby, I promise.” 

_You can’t, Minho. You can’t fix anything if you won’t acknowledge your own sickness._

“I love you so much, Channie. Please.” 

_No, Minho. You don’t. Maybe not anymore, maybe you just never did. You don’t love me, Minho. You just love messing with my head. You love ruining me, Minho. That’s all you’ve ever loved from me, right? My weakness; my inability to reject your sweet nothings._

The thoughts were a trailing noose that began circling around his neck. Suffocating him. 

He wished he didn’t love Minho so much. He wished he hated Minho as much as he convinced himself. 

He wished he didn’t allow Minho to control him, pulling him into yet another intoxicating kiss while smearing the tears on his cheek. Minho would always drag him back to the intoxicating melancholy, to the melting embrace of his warmth. 

Minho was a poison, and Chan hated himself for letting himself fall into the beautiful illusion of his touch.

He pushed Minho down to the soft mattress and slowly thrust himself inside. Minho was all over him, swallowing and overwhelming him. Chan choked on his breath, because he didn't know if he would be allowed to do this with Minho ever again. If he’s allowed to have another night spent laying beside the love of his life. 

Minho was writhing underneath him, curling his fingers on the sheets under him. Chan allowed himself to succumb to his lust and impulse, letting himself go way under Minho’s skin. 

For a second, he shut out the screams of warning in his brain and let himself leach through the noise of them making love. Letting himself be lulled by the moans of Lee Minho, letting himself be grasped by the fingers of his boyfriend.

Chan held Minho’s fingers in his as he performed a series of deep and slow thrusts. Minho felt like heaven; Chan realized he wasn’t made for him. But for a second, he didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to care if Minho was to leave him for another man. He didn’t want to care, he didn’t want to care. 

“Channie, I love you so much,” Minho sighed and moaned. 

The fingers he had left on Minho’s hip were carving crescents, so deep it would make a cut on his boyfriend’s skin. Chan felt like he didn’t know any words that aren’t the name of his boyfriend or the repeating mantra of ‘I love you’s.

Even if it's hostage, Chan thought, maybe it's nice to be in Minho's hold. Maybe he didn’t want to escape after all.

“Minho, please,” Chan choked. He kept his hold firm on Minho’s hip, his fingers twined and tight with Minho’s. “I love you so much, Minho, please.” 

Minho threw his head on the pillow, eyes already scrunched from the pleasure. He looked immensely beautiful with sweat glistening down his jaw. “Fuck, that felt so good, Channie. More, more, please more.” 

Chan performed another deep thrust at an angle that resulted in a cry and a curse from Minho. 

Minho’s warmth was addicting. Minho’s scent was addicting. Minho’s voice was addicting. Minho was addicting. 

Chan leaned in to kiss Minho’s neck and nibble on his collarbones. “Minho, Minho, Minho, Minho, Minho.”

“Baby, why are you crying?” Minho asked, voice breathy and laced with strained moans. His hand fled to Chan’s hair, ruffling them softly before pulling them hard.

Chan had no idea what Minho’s talking about. 

“Minho, please don’t leave me.” 

“I’m never leaving you, Channie. I love you!” Minho moaned. “We’re fixing this together, okay-fuck that felt so good!” 

Minho arched his back as he whimpered. “Channie, Channie-Channie-Channie, I’m gonna come.” 

Chan slid his hand from Minho’s hip to his cock, jerking him off. The needy cries of Minho as he came were a beautiful hymn to Chan’s ears. He looked up to his boyfriend, soaking with his own semen all over. It was filthy, it was gorgeous. Chan made another deep thrust before coming deep inside his boyfriend. 

A floating cry in the humid air between their panting breaths. “Minho, please don’t leave.” 

“Don’t leave me.”
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

They stayed like that after Chan pulled out. On their bed. In their room. In their apartment. Under their blanket. Just them and only them. Chan wanted to stay forever like that.

Minho was sticky with sweat and cum all over his skin, but Chan didn’t care. The air was stink with the smell of sex, but it was thick with the scent of Minho and Chan couldn’t have enough of it. The warmth of his naked boyfriend worked like benzodiazepine and he felt himself dozing off. Maybe he wouldn’t wake up with a migraine tomorrow morning. 

With his arms around Minho, Chan felt safe. 

Or so he thought, until the soft flesh under his arms started to wriggle away from his hold and left him with the wrinkled mattress. 

Minho was leaving him. Minho was leaving. His footsteps were going further. 

Chan was about to cry out Minho’s name when he heard the footsteps coming back.

Caresses on his hair. Chan groaned. Minho came back. 

Minho was there, and Minho was _forcing Chan to look him in the eyes_. 

“Drink your pills first, Channie,” Minho whispered. A cup of water and two pills. One white and a red on his palm. 

Oh. 

Of course. 

How could Chan be so fucking stupid? How could he be so fucking blind and thought that one session of sex would be enough for Minho to stop drugging him? Minho was sick, and sex was not a fucking medicine. Minho was terribly sick and Chan needed to get away. 

Chan pleaded, voice strained. “No, Minho… Please, no more.” 

“Hush, Channie,” Minho purred. “For me, please? It’ll make you feel better. I promise, Channie.” 

Chan knew exactly why he refused the pills; because he was doing it for Minho. For Minho’s sake, for Minho’s content. Chan knew exactly what those pils were doing to him; it was fucking him up. It was making him _sick_ even though he was completely healthy before the pills came. 

He was completely healthy and fine before Minho decided to change, cheat, and be a complete asshole while constantly abusing him with drugs. 

Chan hoped he radiated enough hatred in his eyes when he glared at Minho. 

“I _fucking_ despise you, Minho. You’re so fucking disgusting.” 

The fingers that Minho used to hold the cup of water twitched and clenched, but he kept it in front of Chan’s nose anyway. His eyes were glassy. 

Minho sniffled. “I know, Channie, I know. But I love you so much, you’re the love of my life and I can’t live without you, Channie.” His lips were quivering and dragged downwards. Chan despised his guilt-trips. 

“But I can’t live with you being like this either,” Minho continued. “Please just drink this, Channie. This will help you sleep and feel better in the morning, I promise, I swear. I just want to make you feel better, really.” 

“I hate you, I hate everything about you. I really hate you, Minho.” 

Chan hated Minho. Chan hated Minho so fucking much.

He drank the pills. 

“I’m so proud of you, Channie. I love you, so so much.” 

Ruffles on his hair. He hated Minho’s fingers. A kiss on his nose and his forehead. He hated Minho’s lips.

“Go to sleep, Channie. You’ll feel better in the morning. I’m gonna clean up first and sleep soon too, okay? I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

He didn’t know if it’ll be better if Minho were to leave forever. He didn’t know anything anymore. He felt like he didn’t know his own boyfriend. There’s something terrible happening to Minho. He’s terrified of Minho and Minho’s unsaid plans. He had to find out in order to survive, he had to find out. 

He had to find out, but fuck, his thoughts were driving away from his head. 

“You’ll wake up fine, okay, baby? Just go to sleep.”

He needed to find out what’s wrong with Minho, he had to save himself.

“You’ll wake up fine.”
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

His eyes were heavy and his head was pounding. Chan could barely see, but he could perfectly hear Minho in the kitchen. Something sizzling and a, “Yeah, he’s not getting better”. 

Minho was definitely not talking to him. To his phone. Probably Hyunjin. Probably talking about how embarrassing Chan was last night. Chan wanted to get up from the bed and slap Minho, but he could barely peel himself off the sheet. His muscles hurt all over.

Did he drink the pills again last night? He had sworn he’d never swallow those poisonous tablets anymore. But his brain was fucking with him and deleting memories as it liked. Minho was fucking with his brain. 

The smell of butter forced its way into his nostrils along with another set of words from Minho. Angrier than he usually sounded. 

“Yesterday he could barely breathe, asshole. I only left for five fucking seconds to grab him water and he was already hyperventilating. Your risperidone-or-whatever isn’t fucking helping!” 

There’s something definitely wrong; Minho was never angry at anyone. He cried, he victimized himself and put out petty shows all the time. But never mad, never snapping harsh words. 

Chan assumed Minho wasn’t talking to Hyunjin. Hyunjin didn’t appear to be that smart. Maybe someone related to both of them. Someone that’s been helping them behind the screen, someone that knows about medicines to fuck him up. Someone more vicious. Chan had to get up. Chan had to call Minho, but his throat was so dry it hurt him to even mumble.

“He needs something else. Something more effective, one that won’t fuck up his memory and something to calm him down. He gets more and more aggressive each day, for fuck’s sake.” 

Chan didn’t need anything “more effective”. He needed the drugging to fucking _stop_. It’s only a defense mechanism for him to be aggressive. He couldn’t just sit still while his crazy boyfriend tried to drug him to death. 

His arm hurt. His legs hurt, his back hurt. Moving hurt, but it’s more painful for him to be betrayed and left like this. Poisoned and dying. He rolled over to get off of the bed. 

“Yes, and I need it quick. _He_ needs it quick.”

His feet missed the ground and he felt himself crushed by the floor. 

“Motherfucker,” Chan cursed.

A panicked stutter of, “Shit, he’s awake. I’ll talk to you later, bye”, and hurried steps approaching him. Chan used all of his energy to get up from the floor and stand up straight. The room was spinning, the furnitures were dancing. 

“Channie, are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

Chan slapped Minho’s hand away from him. 

“I made scrambled eggs. You like them, don’t you?” 

Chan knew Minho put shit everytime he cooked. Just like the steak that made him throw up his whole gut on their anniversary day. 

Even thinking about it made him sick. How could Minho be so cruel to him? He swore he’d done nothing wrong. It’s not his fault that he had trouble memorizing things. It’s not his fault that he was possessive over his boyfriend. It’s not his fault that Minho abused him with drugs and pretended to be the victim the whole time. It’s not his fault that Minho cheated. 

Chan didn’t know why he nodded. 

Chan didn’t know why he followed Minho’s steps to the kitchen and sat on the dining table. Chan didn’t know why he pretended to not hear anything priorly. Chan didn’t know why it hurt him so bad. Loving Minho, that was. It hurt fucking terribly, and he knew confronting him would only make things worse. 

The eggs tasted like shit. He had no idea why Minho was fucking terrible at cooking or why their friends would compliment him for the skills he never had. Chan swallowed each bite of the mushy eggs, trying to not think about the poison. 

Chan listened to Minho complaining about his work, nodding and nodding and nodding and nodding and fuck, it hurt. 

“So that’s why I’m all dressed up today. The marketing chief asked us to tidy ourselves for the meeting. He’s not even aware of how wasted we’re all from the party. And fuck him, I’m always tidy and pretty no matter how wasted,” Minho grinned. 

“Of course you are,” Chan talked to his plate. He wanted to throw up.

“What about you, baby? What are your plans for today? You’re past all your deadlines, aren’t you?” 

Chan felt like he shouldn’t be talking too much to Minho anymore. He couldn’t trust him anymore. He’d opened up enough for Minho to shove spears all over his vulnerable sides. 

He wanted to fucking vomit. 

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulder, as if it would explain anything to his boyfriend. 

Chan wondered what he did so wrong to be treated like this. He didn’t want to face Minho, because he knew his eyes would only be filled with loath. He stabbed his sloppy breakfast, cringing by the sound his fork made when it pierced through the plate. 

“Okay then, I’ll get going now. If you’re still tired, just put the dishes on the sink and I’ll wash them when I get back,” Minho stood up and drank the coffee from his mug. Chan gazed on his own mug, filled with warm water and probably something dissolved in it. 

Minho kissed Chan’s cheek and stole a peck from his lips before walking to their door with his bag. 

When the door slammed and there’s no longer any sign of Minho in their apartment, Chan ran to the bathroom and threw up his gut.
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

It’s something called factitious disorder. Factitious disorder _imposed on another_ , to be exact. A disorder that makes the patient falsely claim that another person (in this case, Chan himself) has physical or psychological symptoms of illness. It stabbed him in the chest when he read it. 

_The diagnosis requires demonstrating that the individual is taking surreptitious actions to misrepresent, simulate, or cause signs or symptoms of illness or injury in the absence of obvious external rewards. Methods of illness falsification can include exaggeration, fabrication, simulation, and induction._

It fit everything so well. The pieces were starting to fit in the puzzle. The pills. The drugs. The poison. His sweet-talks, his fake merits. It all made so much sense the more Chan thought about it. 

It hurt even more, knowing how sick Minho was. 

But it made sense. 

In a way, it made sense and Chan could accept it. 

In another, it ruined him. It tore him into pieces and there’s nothing to glue him back together.

Minho was his safe place. Minho used to accept him just the way he was, but now Chan was nothing but a tool for him. Nothing but a toy for him to fuck with. A prop for his greedy, sick performance. 

Minho used him only for his petty show. Making Chan sick, making Chan think he had some kind of an unidentified illness. Keeping him between his slender fingers. Giving him pills, making him believe he should see the doctors. 

Keeping him sick. 

Keeping him sick, keeping him alive and sick. Earning himself the title as the noble boyfriend. The noble, sad, perfect boyfriend. All while controlling the threads twined into Chan’s body. It’s sickening. All while fucking with Hyunjin, all while sucking his dirty cock in dark alleys after work. 

It all made so much sense. It made sense and Chan wished it hadn’t. 

It hurt _so_ bad. It hurt more than when he found out Minho cheated on him. This one _hurt the most_. 

Chan didn’t know how long he cried, but when he regained his senses, Minho was still not there. 

He needed to help Minho, but he needed to help himself too. His head hurt. His head hurt and the screaming didn’t stop even once. 

His head hurt, it was set ablaze and there’s no way for him to escape the heat. He needed to do something _quick_ before Minho got home with another set of drugs. 

He picked up his phone and looked up for the number that would help him fix things. 

The other line picked up so fast. Of course he would. Maybe he knew Chan would call. Maybe he knew that Chan had figured out everything. 

“ _Hello?_ ” The voice he recognized so much said.

“Can we meet later? I have something important to talk with you,” Chan wasted no time for small talks. 

“ _Huh? Of course, Channie. Where do you want to meet?_ ”

Chan wanted to spit at the usage of that pet name. He didn’t have the right to call him that. 

“I’ll come to your office. I have so many things to ask.” 

Chan hung up, picked up his coat and made his way to Minho’s office.
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

The evening wind creeped through his thick coat and made him shiver. Minho didn’t let him drink caffeine, but fuck it. Chan threw the empty cup of espresso to the trash bin, spying on the office door. It’s past the working hours, and he could see employees starting to flood the front doors. 

And there, Chan saw him. He really was gorgeous. Covered in a long coat, long blond hair contrasting his black suit. The tall man trotted toward him. “Channie, did you wait long?”

Chan didn’t feel the need to greet him with a smile. He didn’t have the right to call him that name. 

“Listen, Hyunjin,” Chan started, avoiding the tall man’s eyes. “I need to ask you some things. And I need you to answer them honestly.” 

Hyunjin let out a nervous laugh. That prick.

“Of course, Channie. What is it?” Hyunjin asked, leading Chan’s steps through the street. He turned around when he noticed Chan wasn’t following him, and Chan took a step ahead of him. 

Chan brought him to a much emptier road. “What are you planning with Minho?” 

“Huh?” 

The taller man stopped walking and tilted his head, letting his blond strands fall to the side of his face. That laugh again. 

Chan snapped and walked closer to him. “Hyunjin, I know you know what I’m talking about.” 

Cold breeze brushed his nape. It’s getting darker and the temperature continued to drop. 

Chan pushed Hyunjin to the nearest alley beside them. “Channie, I don-”

And bang the back of his head against the wall, grabbing him by the collar. 

“Fuck you, you don’t get to call me that, fucking whore!” He held Hyunjin’s head before slamming it again to the wall. 

He grabbed his blond strands. “Drugs. Risperidone. Does it ring any bell in your small brain?” 

Hyunjin looked disgusting in his tears. 

“Chan, please, I have no idea what you-”

He banged Hyunjin’s head again. Louder. Harder. He saw the blood stain on the wall. He did it again. Hyunjin was squealing and slipping on his feet. The blood splattered and painted his pretty blond hair with thick red. 

“Answer, asshole. You’re also fucking with my boyfriend, aren’t you? Isn’t this the place where you do your filthy little affairs? I can’t believe both of you,” Chan pulled Hyunjin toward him and spat on his face. 

Hyunjin was shaking and he was a filthy crying mess. His hand flailed aimlessly in front of him. Chan followed his movement. 

“Fucking own it, Hyunijn. You’re helping Minho with the drugs, aren’t you?” 

Hyunjin’s fingers were roaming upward, reaching for something. Chan knew what he was looking for. A fucking defense machine. _He brought a fucking knife with him_. 

Of course, Hyunjin would’ve seen this coming. He came prepared. He probably had the cops called too for Chan. 

“Fuck, fuck you,” Chan snatched Hyunjin’s arm, released his hair only to punch his abdomen. He let Hyunjin take a faltered breath and ripped his coat off of him, throwing it elsewhere. He wouldn’t be able to get his weapon that way. 

And he landed another punch on his central abdomen. Again. Again, again. Again. Again. 

“Drugging me, poisoning me. Making me sick. Helping a sick fucking psycho. Sucking his dick in dark alleys like this. Aren’t you just a little too horny? Whore, such a cheap fucking whore. You’re a worthless piece of shit.” 

Again, again, again, again. Hyunjin was begging for him to stop. The inaudible noise didn’t make it to Chan’s ears. 

“Don’t you know Minho’s sick in the head? Filthy fucking whore. You’re fucking pathetic. You’re just as insane as him.” 

“What are you talking about?” His questions were drowning in the squeals of pain. But his cries too, were swallowed by the noise of neverending beatings. 

It became a rhythm. A jab to his cheekbone, then to his eyes, and then back on the abdomen. Again. Again. Againagainagainagain. Until there was no longer a clean surface of skin for his fist to land on. 

Hyunjin was a glob of disgusting mush. Chan had no idea how many bones he’d broken on his face, but he didn’t quite look like Hyunjin with all the blood and swelling bruises. His cheekbones looked crooked, his nose was broken. His lips were popped, soaking in red. The sockets of his eyes were dark purple, contouring the mole under his eye. 

Even his squeals were getting weird. To trace his wounds one by one would probably be impossible by then. 

Good. 

He wouldn’t be able to pick up his knife. He wouldn’t be able to run to the police station. He wouldn’t be able to call Minho. 

Chan might have to ruin his jaw as well, so Hyunijn won’t be able to suck his boyfriend’s cock anymore. His _sick_ boyfriend. 

“Please, please. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hyunjin fell short to the ground, dragging a trail of disgusting red on the brick wall. He held his arms in front of him and cried. His pretty face was all he cared about, even when it was barely recognizable. Chan held Hyunjin’s head with one hand and slammed it to the brick wall again, his other hand landed a jab to his jaw. 

Then his jaw looked strange too.

Chan scrunched his nose at the cries. He spat on Hyunjin again. “Acting like a victim now. Both of you are the same, disgusting petty assholes. Can’t any of you own your fucking deeds? Is it that hard for both of you to do?” 

He lifted his foot and Hyunjin circled his arms around it. Pleading. Chan was disgusted at how that whore had the audacity to throw puppy eyes at him. It might work for Minho, but not for him. Minho might get aroused at the sight of that bitch flailing on his feet, but not Chan. He’s not cheap like that. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” 

Chan didn’t know if it’s Hyunjin’s pathetic wails or was it his own manic screaming. It hurt him too. He swore to God, it hurt him so bad. Having his most trusted person stabbing his back, planning vicious things to him while cheating with a filthy whore. 

“Please,” Hyunjin begged, tears and snot wetted his bloody face, glistening the purple bruises. He begged with his torn lips. Nobody would be moved by that monstrosity of a face. 

Hyunjin was getting weaker and he couldn’t stop Chan anyways. 

He landed his foot on Hyunjin’s chest, earning a scream and a crack of his ribcage. Chan kept stomping on his abdomen and his chest and his abdomen and his chest and his abdomen, and his chest. And his abdomen. 

Hyunjin tried breathing, Chan figured. He tried to heave air into his broken nose, tried swallowing breath from his broken flesh of lips and tried to move his dislocated jaw. 

All he managed to let out was just a stuttered series of strangled squeaks. 

Hyunjin stopped squirming by then, only coughing and choking on his own blood. Droplets of red landed on Chan’s ruined coat.

Disgusting. Fucking. Blood. 

He was unrecognizably horrid. If anything, he looked like a bloody piece of chopped flesh. Chan sat on Hyunjin’s back and pushed his face on the wet, mudded ground. If he wanted to cough out his blood, Chan would let him dirty the floor instead. Filthy fucking whore. 

He kept Hyunjin face down, pressing onto his wounded head until he stopped squirming and the mumbling nonsense went silent. 

Chan stood up then, walking away from the piece of flesh after giving him another kick and another stomp on his unmoving body.
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

It drained Chan too, defending his life from Hyunjin. His whole body hurt, and he had to take several stops on the way home to control his breather. Hyunjin was unbelievable. Chan didn’t get to see it, but he _knew_ the blond man brought a knife with him. He couldn’t believe after all the things he did with Minho, he still had the audacity to bring a weapon to attack Chan with.

Walking home felt like it took hours. Climbing the stairs took him an eternity. Knocking on his own door felt like hell. He had keys, but he didn’t have any power left to find for it in the pockets of his fucked up clothing. Chan winced when his bloodied knuckles hit the wooden plate of a door; he switched with his palms. 

Minho greeted him with a scream. 

A panicked squeal, rather. Minho was suddenly all over him, showering him with questions. Chan wanted to roll his eyes. Minho knew everything anyways. He raised his fist, but it fell back to his side. 

“Who did this to you?” Minho asked. Chan was too tired to argue, too tired to answer. 

He laid his head on Minho’s shoulder and started sobbing. It hurt. 

“Baby?” Minho reached Chan's hair and ruffled it slowly. “Let me see your wounds, Channie. Where does it hurt?” 

“Everywhere, Minho. It hurt so bad.” 

It hurt him so fucking terribly to see Minho’s acts. It made every bruise on his body wake and throb deep into his skin. It made every wound on him pulse through his nerves. It made his blood pump to his throat. It stabbed his chest like he was being played as a mindless fucking voodoo. 

“Can I open your clothes, baby? Let’s clean up, okay?”

Chan nodded. He always felt weak whenever Minho was around. He flinched when Minho took off his coat, he shook and shivered when Minho started unbuttoning his shirt. He was terrified. Minho would find out what he did earlier, he would get mad at Chan. Minho was stronger than Chan and he was healthier (because Chan never forced him with drugs, of course). Minho could easily pin him to the ground and destroy him. 

“Don’t do it to me too, Minho, please,” Chan pleaded. His voice came out so weak, it was practically a whisper. 

Minho could punch his face and break his nose and slam his head to the wall thousands of times. Minho could stomp on his body again and again and again and break every bone on his ribcage. Minho could crush his heart and lungs. Minho could beat him up to death if he found out what Chan did.

Chan started crying louder, reaching Minho's arms. “Please, Minho. He wanted to kill me. I swear, he wanted to kill me.”

“Who, Channie?”

Minho didn’t believe him. Minho never did. “He brought a knife with him, Minho. He wanted to kill me, I swear to God. I could’ve died, Minho.” 

“Nobody’s trying to kill you, Channie. ” Minho opened Chan’s shirt and revealed his torso. 

“You’re clean…” Minho stopped his fingers. “Whose blood is that on your coat and shirt, then, Channie?” 

“He wanted to kill me, Minho,” Chan sobbed.

“Who, Channie? No one’s trying to harm you. You have to tell me who you did this to. This isn’t okay, Channie.” 

Why did Minho defend Hyunjin? Why did Minho blame Chan? Sick bastards. Hyunjin tried to kill Chan, and he defended himself. And Minho didn’t believe him. Minho just chose to blame Chan for everything. He picked that whore rather than his boyfriend of two fucking years. He hated Minho. He hated Minho so fucking much. 

“You have to stop defending him, Minho.” 

“Channie, I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

“Minho, he brought a knife. And you’re still defending him. You never believe me!” Chan screamed, pulling himself away from Minho.

“Channie, you didn’t drink your pills, didn’t you? You’re talking nonsense. I believe you, but you have to explain it to me. Tell me who you did this to.” 

Minho was a sick psychopath. How could he keep his voice stern and cold when somebody tried to threaten Chan’s life? How could he think about drugging Chan at times like that? How could he just conclude that everything Chan said was just fucking bullshit and utter nonsense? Did Chan just not matter to him anymore? 

Minho was unbelievable. Minho wouldn’t care even if he were to find Chan dying on the street because of Hyunjin. He would always be on Hyunjin’s side, he would choose Hyunjin over him. 

“Stop defending him, stop fucking defending him, Minho!” 

“Channie,” Minho sighed and held his own head. “You’re giving me a headache. Stop.” 

So fucking mean. He was so fucking mean and terrible and he never cared about Chan. Minho was malicious. Minho was fucking horrible. He’s a terrible fucking boyfriend. Chan deserved better than him. Chan was trying to explain everything and Minho told him to fucking shut the fuck up. What kind of boyfriend would do that? Chan hated Minho so much. 

Chan wailed.

“You only hurt your knuckles. I’m here, I’m not trying to hurt you. I never hurt you, don’t I? I have no reason to. Nobody has a reason to hurt you.”

“ _But you poison my food and abuse me with drugs_ ,” Chan mumbled, painting spite all over the scrunched muscles on his face. 

Minho didn’t hear him. Minho just _chose_ to ignore him. He never wanted to acknowledge his own sickness and malevolent deeds. He would always just choose the words he wanted to hear.

Minho dragged Chan to the bathroom and tried putting him to the bath, but Chan refused. He refused to have Minho’s hands over him ever again. He would never let those fingers get close to him. Chan shut himself inside the bathroom, crying because he couldn’t lock the door. 

Minho didn’t try to get in after then. That’s good… Maybe that’s good… But Minho could always jump on him when he’s asleep. Minho could murder him in his sleep. He would die in Minho's hands. Minho could do exactly what Chan did to Hyunjin, if not worse. 

He tried as much as he could to clean himself off of all traces of Hyunjin and his blood. 

When Chan got out of the bathroom, Minho was already on their bed. Holding a cup of water and pills. Minho didn’t bother to greet him with a smile or a warm call of pet name. 

“You’re drinking this,” He said sharply. 

Chan inspected his palm; they weren’t the usual white and red pills. There were three. Oh God. One familiar white, one was foreign and colored orange, another bright yellow. All shaped like round bullets. Minho kept his face stern. Chan couldn’t imagine what would happen if he refused the pills. 

Chan obeyed Minho. He should, if he didn’t want Minho to beat him to death. He put all three into his mouth and drank the water Minho handed. Minho didn’t look satisfied, and Chan wanted to cry. 

“I called your office, and your boss said you didn’t show up there. Where else could you be, Channie? Your boss was worried sick, he thought you ran away again. Everyone was worried sick,” Minho went to grab Chan’s face, harsh. “Open.”

Chan did, proving to his boyfriend that he’s being fucking minacious for nothing. Minho was so fucking paranoid, it’s terrifying. Minho sounded like a fucking stalker. Calling his office? Come on, his prick asshole of a boss wouldn’t give a single fuck about him. 

He stayed quiet then, staring Minho dead in the eyes. 

But the dark orbs started to water in front of him.

“I’m worried about you, okay?” Funny how his voice was still stable like that. Fucking liar. 

“You know how much I love you, right? I care so so so much about you, and I hate seeing you like this. So can you please,” Minho took his eyes off of him, reaching to Chan’s closed fists. “Tell me who you did this to?” 

There’s something hypnotizing in how Minho rubbed his hands, something that made Chan’s muscle loosen and his skin breathe. He almost missed Minho’s guilt trip. 

“Minho, shut the fuck up.” 

Minho told him to shut the fuck up earlier, when he was writhing in his pain from being betrayed. Then was his chance to do the same thing. It was satisfying to see how Minho’s face shifted. 

“You don’t care about me,” Chan started again. “You never did. You just want people to know that you care, right?” 

It flashed before his eyes. Those words. 

_Factitious Disorder Imposed on Another. The diagnosis requires demonstrating that the individual is taking surreptitious actions to misrepresent, simulate, or cause signs or symptoms of illness or injury in the absence of obvious external rewards._

“You just want people to _know_ that you care, right? All those attention you get from me being sick. The least you could do was to admit your fucking sickness like I did with mine.” 

Minho fled his head upwards. “What? How did you…”

His boyfriend’s eyes turned big, spilling out the shield of tears. Minho threw his head toward their opened bedroom door, to his working desk. His lips started quivering and Minho bit the flesh. The tendons on his face seemed like it was being torn by how much the skin crumpled and stretched every now and then. 

“I… I don’t get it… How did you… How did you find out?” 

“Your fucking drugs, asshole!” Chan screamed with his throat dry. It hurt. “ _You’_ re making me sick!” 

“Fuck you, Minho,” Chan snatched his hand away from Minho. “How could you do that to me? I’m literally losing my mind, Minho. _They_ won’t stop screaming in my head!” 

Chan wiped his tears. “I trusted you so fucking much, and this is what you fucking did.” 

Minho was crying. How could he? How could he do that? How could he always manage to put up his petty shows? Making himself the victim? Minho was fucking cruel. 

And before he realized, his palm was already burning from hitting Minho’s right cheek. “Don’t throw your tears at me, fucking bastard,” he hissed. 

“Making me sick, poisoning my food, all while you fucking cheat behind my back? You fucking whore, you’re fucking disgusting. I can’t even look at you, Minho!”

“I never cheated, for God’s sake!” Minho yelled back, hand holding his own face. “The meds are all for you! Please, you’re not in your right mind, I thought you knew that!” 

How could he? How could Minho keep defending Hyunjin and himself? 

“And you’re still defending that pig? You’re unbelievable, Minho.” 

“Channie, you’re sick! The meds are supposed to calm you down and help you sleep, Channie! I did it all for you to feel better! To stop your head from its terrible, _terrible_ thoughts! Please, I just wanted to help!” 

But Chan wasn’t listening. He didn’t need his bullshit. 

“I _loved_ you, okay? So much. I trusted you, I gave you all the access to my weaknesses. My biggest mistake was trusting you. I swear to God, Minho, I hate you so much,” Chan spat.

Minho took his hand to pull on his brown strands, curling himself into a ball as he screamed to his knees.

“I wish I never loved you! I wish I didn't love you this much! It hurts so bad, Channie!” 

Minho jumped from the bed, his own arms still wrapping him. “It hurts me so bad to see you like this!” 

Minho dragged his feet absurdly out of their bedroom and slammed the door. Chan buried his face onto his pillow and screamed his lungs to the cloth. He hated Minho, he hated Minho. He hated Minho. HehatedMinhohehatedMinhohehatedMinho. 

He screamed and cried until he had no more energy to do so. Until the drowse started to kick in and ripped him off of his consciousness. 

But when he laid face down on the bed, he saw Hyunjin’s face behind his lids. His swollen eyes. The bruises. The blood, the ripped skin. His jaw. Oh God. His jaw was out of its place. Chan sank himself deeper into his pillow, but the more his consciousness faded, the louder he heard Hyunjin’s cries. 

He was about to doze into the nightmare when Minho barged into the room and kneeled on Chan’s side of the bed. 

“Channie, Channie baby oh my God baby, I’m so sorry for getting mad at you,” Minho reached Chan’s face and kissed it again and again and again. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m not mad at you anymore, okay? I don’t hate you, I would never hate you, baby. I’m so sorry.” 

Minho was a sick fucking bastard. Chan didn’t have the energy to even answer. Everything was a literal blur. He needed to sleep. 

“Now sleep, okay? I’ll be right here. I’m not leaving, I love you so much. I’ll never leave, I swear.” 

Chan saw Hyunjin then, laying on the ground, smothered with dirt and blood. Minho betrayed him. Minho was sick. A sick fucking psychopath. 

“I promise, you’ll wake up fine, and I’ll be here. You’ll wake up fine.”
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

He didn’t wake up with a headache. The room wasn’t spinning and everything felt clear and light. Took a while to gather his memories and he failed as usual. 

That’s okay. Minho was sleeping beside him. 

Minho was warm. Chan slid his arm over Minho’s waist and his boyfriend curled into him, snoring still. So cute. The morning sun covered his face with soft light. Minho had the most beautiful eyelashes, the most beautiful nose, the most beautiful lips. 

Chan couldn’t resist not kissing him all over. His boyfriend was too adorable. Chan cuddled his boyfriend tighter, trying to go back to sleep with his comforting warmth all over him. He breathed in Minho’s skin, he sank his nose into Minho’s shampoo scented hair. 

Minho usually slept later than him and woke up earlier than him, it’s rare to actually see him sleep. But Chan was fully awake and couldn’t get back to sleep. He sat up, looking at his peacefully sleeping boyfriend. 

It’s impossible for someone to look _that_ hot when sleeping. In that wrinkled t-shirt, in those joggers. It’s impossible for Chan to not touch his boyfriend like that. He leaned in to his exposed collarbones and took a little peck. Minho was so deep in his sleep. Chan smothered Minho’s torso with his fingers, slid his nose down to his stomach.

Minho was gorgeous. 

Chan slipped his fingers under Minho’s waistband, exposing his boyfriend’s boxer briefs. Pulling out his soft dick. Chan took a second to admire Minho’s cock; it wasn’t big, it was rather average sized. But it was delicate and just the right girth. 

On impulse, he brought the soft dick to his mouth. He had almost never given Minho a blow job as it was usually the other way around, so his movement was awkward and sloppy. He started bringing his tongue all over the length and suckling on the tip; and that’s when Minho started squirming under his sleep. 

_Hot_. 

He slid Minho further down his throat, bobbing his head ever so slightly while enjoying the sweet whimpers Minho produced under his sleep. He then heard the sharp gasp of Minho waking up and-

A kick to his face that sent him to the other end of the bed. 

Hurt. 

“Channie, what the hell?” 

Chan stared at Minho, massaging his jaw. How could he be so violent? Kicking him like that, as if he was a bag of worthless flour? He swallowed his cock and still got treated like shit. Chan was _his_ boyfriend, did it just not matter to him anymore? 

“What the hell is wrong with _you_ , Minho?” Chan screamed. “Just _what the fuck_ is wrong with you? Do you just hate me that much?” 

Minho sat up and wore his pants back on, tucking his wet cock back to his briefs. “Chan, I didn’t consent to that. That was not okay!” 

Minho didn’t use the pet name. Minho hated him. “Lying bastard. You just _despise_ me, don’t you?” 

“Please, I don’t,” Minho sighed. “I just woke up ten seconds ago, Channie. Let’s not make this a big deal.” Minho rubbed his temple and got up from his bed. He reached for his phone. 

“You’re playing so much with that whore behind my back and I just don’t _feel_ the same to you anymore, don’t I? I don’t feel as good as that whore around your cock, don’t I?” Chan hissed. 

Minho’s eyebrows scrunched at the screen as he scrolled. “What whore, Channie?’” He asked.

“Hyunjin, Minho. Who else?” Chan said, but his voice was swallowed by the sudden ring from Minho’s phone. Minho wasn’t listening anymore. Minho never listened to him. All he could do was cheat and hurt him. 

Minho answered the call, and Chan could hear the hysteria from the other line that greeted his boyfriend. 

“Yongbok? Please calm down. Can you tell me what happened?” 

Continuous sobs and strained screams, but Chan couldn’t decrypt what Felix was saying as it was all muffled. Such a bother. Minho’s eyes went bigger and bigger with each of Felix’s cries, stealing occasional gazes at Chan. Those blaming eyes. Minho buried his face in his hand. 

“Beaten up? Last night... ” Minho’s breath hitched. 

What a bother. Minho started crying too, his shoulder trembling. What a hypocrite. A bother. Minho started wailing, eyes directed to Chan. He hid his lips behind his fingers before releasing them and answered Felix. 

“Breathe, okay? Which hospital?” A sob replied to him from the other line.

“Stay there, Yongbok. I’ll meet you soon, okay? Calm down, he’s gonna be okay.” 

Minho ended the call and screamed. Incoherent, broken screams. It sounded like pure frustration and it hurt Chan’s ears. He was so sick of Minho’s petty shows, he didn’t need this first thing in the morning. 

“How could you do that to him?” Minho cried. 

So he found out. 

Chan stared at him. Stupid Minho. Silly, silly Minho. He told him last night. Minho just chose to ignore, and then he pretended to be all surprised. Painting his face with tears and nescience. The _noble, sad, perfect boyfriend._

So Chan said, “You’re so silly. So silly and stupid.” 

Minho slapped him. 

“You’re a monster, you know that?” 

That was the last straw. 

Chan held Minho’s hand and grabbed it tight until he winced from the pain. “Of course I do. You made me into a monster with your drugs.” 

Chan continued, “What else was I supposed to do, Minho? Watch him as he tore me with his knife? He brought a knife with him, Minho. I defended myself.” 

“That’s all in your head, Chan! They found Hyunjin dying in an alley this morning, and not a single weapon in sight! What did you even defend yourself from?” Minho’s voice was strained. 

“Why did you even do that to him? He’d done nothing wrong! You don’t even know him!” 

Chan scoffed and rolled his eyes. Minho should stop defending that whore at some point.

“Do you have any idea how hysterical Felix was, to find his boyfriend like that? It’s a miracle that he’s even breathing, Chan. What’s gotten into you? Do you have any idea how much of his bones you broke? _Jesus Christ_ , you gave him a fucking concussion! You’re a fucking monster, a fucking psychopath, and I don’t even know why I’m still protecting you! I swear to God, I _swear_ to God! You can accuse me for everything, Chan, but not beating up my friend!” 

Minho spat out too many things at once and Chan’s head spun. 

He couldn’t process everything, but something off caught his attention. So horrible he wanted to vomit. 

Minho sank back to their bed, clutching onto his knees. He didn’t look at Chan. “I don’t even know what to do with you anymore.”

Chan didn’t know what to do either. He felt sick knowing how wrong he was. 

“Felix and Hyunjin are dating?” 

“Oh my _fucking_ God!” Minho screamed into his hands. “ _That_ ’s what you’re asking? You’re asking about that, after you beat up an innocent man to the point where he almost died? You’re still worrying about that? 

“What is it, did you think I was cheating with him? Out of fucking nowhere? Because he showed up to the same party that we went? Is that it, is that how your fucking _ill_ brain works?” 

So Minho didn’t cheat. Minho must hate him now. Minho would want to kill him. Minho would do the same thing to Chan, there’s no doubt. Minho was never on Chan’s side. He would throw Chan into the fire to save himself. 

Minho got up and walked past Chan. “Don’t even answer. I don’t want to hear anything you say.”

Chan tried to reach for Minho, but his boyfriend pushed him away. Pushed him _hard_ and _rough_ and _harsh_. “Don’t _fucking_ touch me. I’m going to the hospital.”

Minho took a teary glance at Chan before grabbing his coat and the keys. He looked like a horrible mess of tears, snot, and popped veins.

“I’ll be back. Don’t forget to drink your meds. I think it helped with the aggression. I… we will figure this out.”

And the door shut. And Minho left. And Chan was trembling alone. 

Minho was so harsh on him lately. Raising his voice, threatening him, pushing him away, slapping him. Minho had never slapped him before, but Chan guessed he’d changed. Minho also poisoned his food and forced him to drink unspecified, shady drugs. Minho changed. 

Right. 

The drugs. 

Chan took his own keys and got out of the apartment, heading to the nearest police station. It was time for him to finally report his boyfriend’s drug abuse.
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

Chan was only a block away from the police station when he realized that he probably needed evidence if he wanted to prove how sick Minho was. 

But he left the tubes at the apartment, so he had to run back to the building.

He stopped by Minho’s work desk. He couldn’t remember nor figure out why, but he knew that desk was hiding something. 

So he sat and observed the spotless wood surface. He ran his fingers through the textured timber, picking them up clean.

So he sat. He forgot why he came back home. His memory was awful.

So he pulled out Minho’s drawer. 

And so, he was greeted by thick paperworks with huge, messy scribbles of his name. Oddly familiar. He knew those papers, but he couldn’t remember what they were. His head buzzed and screamed while trying to recall the content, so he picked them up and opened it. He ignored the whispers in his head that told him not to. 

But he did, and he read everything. The diagnostic papers of himself. All the history and diagnosis of his _paranoid personality disorder_. Of his insomnia and aggression. His decreasing appetite and increasing anxiety attacks. His jumbled and fucked memory. 

His assumptions that other people would _exploit, harm, or deceive him, even if no evidence exists to support the expectation._ That he would _suspect on the basis of little or no evidence that others are plotting against him._ That he _might attack them suddenly, at any time and without reason._

He heard Hyunjin’s cries behind his head. 

His paranoias. Hyunjin’s broken ribs. His assumptions and Hyunjin’s nonexistent weapon. His suspicions and Minho’s nonexistent affair. 

His mistakes. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

He stared at the papers for God knew how long, but the writing never seemed to change for the better. It stayed with his name, stayed with his illness. Stayed with his _sick fucking brain_. 

He stayed with the silence and his own choked sobs. His own choked sobs that sounded _too familiar like Hyunjin the night before_. His breathless breaths, his suffocated cries, the echoing screams inside his head, and the numbing sound of door opening. 

And the sound of Minho’s footsteps.

And the sound of Minho’s comforting voice. Minho’s words. Minho’s _inaudible_ words.

And the sound of Minho crying.

And the sound of Minho apologizing.

The muffled noises slowly cleared up around his head and Chan could hear Minho. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Channie. I’m so sorry for not letting you know sooner, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He shut his eyes in hope to escape the continuous apologies, but the noises kept piercing through his ears. 

“Things had been difficult since the last time you ran away. It’s like a restart, a terrible restart because you didn’t remember anything about the paranoia. You keep refusing the medications every night, refusing to talk to your therapist.” 

He curled into himself. His knees felt like comforting pillows under his forehead. 

“I was waiting for the right time to tell you everything, I swear. But I thought I’d wait until the meds actually work with the aggression. So far, they only made everything worse.” 

His fingers felt cold and he felt Minho’s warm palms around them. 

“Channie?” Minho caressed his ears with his thumb, the rest of his fingers slipping to the back of his head. “Look at me, please?” 

Minho was blurry when he looked up. Blurry, and red. Blurry, red, and wet with tears. 

“I will explain everything to you, but only if you believe me. Believe every word I say. I would never lie to you, you know that, right, baby?” 

He felt his cheeks wet by his own tears when he nodded.

“I will explain everything, starting from the meds.”
    
    
      
    
    * * *
    
     

Chan didn’t recognize most of the names, almost to the point where it’s funny. It was funny how Felix was his own therapist and he didn’t recognize him at Minho’s office party. It’s funny how he didn’t recognize all of the meds Minho told him. It’s funny how everything just made the perfect, conflicting, completely crazy sense. 

In a way, he _was_ fucking crazy. 

Zolpidem, risperidone. Zolpidem, quetiapine, clonazepam. Everything sounded like a joke. Fucking sleeping pills, because Minho told him that he wouldn’t get a blink of sleep without the strong fucking drug. He felt like a joke. 

But it made sense. 

It made so much sense, and he didn’t want it to make sense. He threw up his whole gut afterwards. 

Minho gave him chopped fruits, and everything tasted like trash. He hated his brain. He hated thinking. He hated how everything felt malicious and threatening. 

Minho tucked him to bed, then. He promised to accompany him and meet another therapist. Get another psychiatrist, get another set of medications that would actually help. 

And Minho handed the three pills then. With a cup of water as usual. 

Chan drank the pills with obedience. He’s okay, he’s okay. Those are only… the three pills Minho told him about. He’d feel better in the morning, as Minho promised.

“Go to sleep, okay? We’ll deal with everything tomorrow morning, when your head’s clearer.”

But Chan never got to ask the reason why Minho ripped all the labels of the tubes. 

He was never paranoid. He didn’t have a paranoid personality disorder or whatever the fuck the name was. Minho played it all so well. The sick fucking psychopath. 

Minho was getting blurry and his thoughts were scrambling. 

“You’ll wake up fine, okay? I promise. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He didn’t want Minho to be there when he woke up. Minho was a liar. He reminded himself to take the orange tubes to the police station tomorrow. The errand he didn’t get to finish because Minho interrupted with his perfect lies.

“You’ll wake up fine.”

There’s something wrong with Minho and he’d figure everything out.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed that :D
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/SAINTJ1N) and for complains, [my cc](https://curiouscat.qa/SAINTJ1N)


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